


Burn For You

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demonic Possession, Demons, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Monster of the Week, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: Jaskier twitched helplessly as the women filed out of the mill and left him where he was bound on the floor.  He arched his back slightly, trying to see to where the fire was slowly creeping from the bed to drip onto the floor.  It hit the edge of the floor and he closed his eyes, going limp with exhausted pain.His body ached as he lay on the ground, bleeding.  The floor was cold at his back and noise came through staticky and broken like a voice through a waterfall.  He could just vaguely hear footsteps thudding toward him accompanied by shouting.  Still, his vision refused to focus, and the only thing he could identify around him was the flickering red of the flames reflected in the cloud heavy with rain that would never be enough to stop the fire spreading through the mill.All he could hope was that the smoke killed him before he began to burn.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 426
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #05





	Burn For You

**Author's Note:**

> Slight trigger warning for some descriptions of torture/injuries, but nothing more than what already exists in canon. If that's not your thing, avoid the descriptions right after their arrival to the farm.

“Ten gold pieces that it’s nothing more than a few kids.”

Geralt grunted, but Jaskier knew from long practice that the Witcher was just busy thinking of all the creatures he’d memorized in his internal bestiary. He could just imagine the warrior’s grumbling voice,  _ might be witches or a power-mad mage. Or chimera. Or even a phoenix. _

Melitele, he hoped it was something interesting.

“At least they’re paying well.”

Indeed, the five hundred crowns offered by a grizzled alderman was far and away more than they would normally expect this far from a major city. The whole thing made Jaskier suspicious even if there was no real cause for it. It should have been just like countless other contracts Geralt had accepted over the years when Jaskier had traveled with him.

If it were a ballad, Jaskier would have strummed a low, minor chord filled with menace. He would describe the missing miller and his family who’d been joined by at least six of the young women from the town. Perhaps he’d add a fictitious sobbing widow, seeking justice for her lost lover--his audiences always seemed to relish illustrations demonstrating the danger lurking in the shadows just beyond the fickle firelight of their own homes. It was better than imagining the grief lining the alderman’s face when he listed his son as one of the missing.

For now, the story was little more than a mystery built around a few rumors of bonfires in the woods and a list of missing people.

“Do you think it’s a vampire?” he asked thoughtfully, “That would explain all the female victims.”

“There would have been bodies to find then.”

“They can’t hypnotize the beautiful virgins into their surface, then?” He made a thoughtful noise. “I’m beginning to wonder if  _ any _ bard ever bothered to talk to Witcher before me.”

Geralt shot him a look, but there was a hint of a smile curling at the edge of his lips. “Since when have you cared about realism in your ballads?”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

Despite his aggrieved tone, Jaskier felt light as they followed the alderman’s directions to the empty mill settled on a hill at the edge of the river. Jaskier eyed the icy curling over the side of the living area on the side of the building and the washing line still adorned with a shirt with a faded flower pattern that no longer had a family to claim it. Somehow, the empty windows seemed to stare back at them as they walked closer. The waterwheel continued to creak as it rotated with the pull of the water, adding to the eerie silence of the woods around them. 

Abruptly, his good humor faded.

Geralt’s expression shifted to the familiar focus of a Witcher on a hunt and Jaskier was careful to stay out of his way as he began to range in search for clues. The bard left him to his search for footprints in the muddy bank nearby, choosing to drift into the house instead.

Inside, there was heartbreak hiding beneath the subtle traces of the family who’d once lived within these walls. A woman’s scratched and well loved hand mirror was carefully laid on the dresser next to a half-finished embroidery loop. Half-mended pants were draped over a chair nearby--as though the owner had set them down to walk away and never return. 

He listened to Geralt’s familiar tread over the weathered wooden floor and spoke without looking away from the neatly made bed. “Maybe they just left,” Jaskier mused without much conviction.

“They didn’t pack any of their belongings,” came the answer and he turned in time to see the warrior open one of the drawers in the work area, tossing out a few coins. “Or money for travel.”

“There’s no sign of a struggle. Do you think they were lured outside?”

“Possible,” the Witcher’s voice was flat, impassive with the help of decades of similar scenes. “Or they didn’t realize it was inside until it was too late.”

“You still think it’s a beast of some sort?”

A shrug. “I didn’t see any inhuman prints on the riverbank. Just booted feet.”

“So it’s human?”   
  


“Or the creature took them in a different direction.”

Jaskier considered the river on one side and the road on the other. “Wouldn’t it be risky to take them closer to the road? Other travelers might have interfered.”

“Unless they could blend in.”

Something in his tone made Jaskier pause, curious. “Did you find something?”

The Witcher nodded toward the empty stable tucked into the shade of a sprawling oak nearby. “Notice anything missing?”

Jaskier glanced back at the empty harness hanging next to the grindstone. “Horses?” he asked.

“And a cart.”

They both considered the implications of such a thing for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the ghosts in the empty air around them.

“Come on,” Geralt said finally, “I need to ask around. See if there are any more victims in the area.”

* * *

The bar felt like it was the living embodiment of the moment right before a storm hit. Electric with a kind of dread that Jaskier was all too familiar with. He saw the same shadows of war and the reflection of Cintra burning in each grim expression.

He gave up dragging the mood of the room up with flimsy ditties or jaunty tunes, choosing to merely pluck out tunes at random and saving his voice for brighter days. The crowd seemed to barely notice his presence as they huddled in tight clusters of misery. Their whispers rumbled like thunder in a desert, unfamiliar and full of doom.

After a few hours without any sign of Geralt and with a crowd slowly trickling out the door, Jaskier returned his lute to its case and plopped down at the bar. He smiled at the lonely barmaid nearby.

“Not much of a crowd nowadays,” she said with a friendly expression.

“How long has been like this?”

She slid over a full mug of sweet smelling ale which he raised in a quick salute. The woman sighed, eyes darting over the near-empty bar and lingering on a few abandoned chairs like she was picturing the people who used to sit there. “Rumor is we’re being hunted. That why that monster hunter is here?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier corrected gently and with familiar, if muted, fanfare. “The White Wolf. He’ll get it sorted.”

“You must be Dandelion.” Some of the terrible tension bracketing her expression faded with the sweet smile that bloomed with recognition. If Jaskier wasn’t already terribly in love with a grumpy, scowling Witcher, he thought he might have been tempted by the honeyed blonde curls and freckles dotting beneath hazel eyes. 

He gave her a bow. “That I am and who might you be, fair lady?”

“Aisling.” 

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Aisling.”

A chair scraped as a man got to his feet and stumbled towards the door. Aisling hesitated, humor fading with the return of the world around them. “Do you really think he’ll be able to find them?” she asked--as if it was a risk to ask that much.

“If anyone can, it’s Geralt,” Jaskier assured her. “Did you know any of the people who are missing?”

“Mary and Bron were regulars around here.” He guessed that was the miller family that she was describing since the younger teenagers would probably find amusement elsewhere. “Rose, Einri, and Nesta disappeared after the Harvest Festival and the others a few weeks before that. I thought they’d just decided to head to the city for work.” She faltered and looked down at her work calloused hands, “We’d talked about it, sometimes.”

“Did you know all the people who disappeared?”

She shrugged. “As much as anyone knows each other in a small village.”

“Is there any chance that they might have run off with someone? Like the alderman’s boy?”

Aisling looked at him with barely concealed horror at the thought. “Is that what they told you? That he was ‘missing’?”

Jaskier stared at her, a dark understanding beginning seep through him like frost.

“They found his body at the edge of town,” she said, eyes going distant. “He was...staked down and, and tortured. It was awful--I’ve never seen so much blood. They barely had enough to bury.”

He frowned and wondered why this hadn’t been included in the information given by the alderman. Leaned forward, he tried to balance concern with curiosity. “Have they found any of the other missing people?”

“Just the miller--Bron. Poor Mary, too, I imagine--even if we never found the body. No one knows what happened to the others.”

The sound of the tavern door reopened made them both look up to see Geralt step through, scan the small crowd, and make his way over to Jaskier. Aisling seemed to wilt at the sight of the Witcher and mumbled an excuse before disappearing to the kitchen.

Geralt arched a sardonic brow. “Something I said?”

“Apparently the alderman didn’t give us all the details on the missing men and women,” Jaskier said, brow still furrowed in thought. Quickly, he relayed the information from Aisling. “It looks like the only ones that are actually missing are the women. What kind of creature would do that?”

“Too many to count.”

Jaskier sighed. “I have a bad feeling about this place.”

The Witcher grunted, reaching over and finishing off the rest of his drink. The bard considered protesting, but assumed Aisling’s startled gasp meant she probably wouldn’t be back for a while. Besides, he couldn’t seem to get the story of the tortured body of the alderman’s son out of his mind.

“The barmaid,” Geralt said abruptly, “I figured you’d be with her for the rest of the night.”

Jaskier shrugged, not meeting his eyes, and felt a bitter smile twist his lips. 

“I guess my heart just isn’t in it anymore.”

* * *

The next day, Jaskier went with Geralt to investigate the area where the body had been found. It was a mile or so outside of town on an empty stretch of road with enough trees to ensure that whoever had attacked him wouldn’t worry about getting interrupted.

“What kind of creature would do this?” Jaskier asked, looking around nervously. “Don’t most monsters just go for a quick kill?”

“Smarter ones like their victims to suffer.” 

Geralt toed a clump of leaves that were still stained by dark liquid, disturbing the flies that were crawling over it. There must not have been much rain since the murder which made it easy to see the bloodied marks left behind. Jaskier tried not to look too closely at the scratch marks dug into the wood of the log where the frayed ends of a rope hung limply.

“It looks like there’s a campfire over there,” Jaskier said, with a nod towards a pile of ash. “They might have been here long enough to need it.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you sure it’s a monster?” He kept thinking about the miller’s house and the lack of struggle in the neatly kept space. “Humans can do terrible things too.”

The Witcher shook his head, sucking in a deep breath that Jaskier wasn’t tempted to replicate. “I can smell something here, but I’m not sure what it is…” he growled, looking frustrated. “There’s too many footprints from when they moved the body to track anything.”

“Maybe it’s time to see if the alderman might have more to share.” 

  
  
  


The alderman’s house was barely more than a cabin surrounded by neat fields of leafy greens and early vegetables. A few chickens hunted for bugs, clucking irritably when the two men walked past them. In the barn, Jaskier heard a milk cow low angrily, agitated. He frowned in the direction of the noise, something he recognized by a brief dalliance with a farmer and his open minded wife.

“He hasn’t milked the cow yet,” he said, glancing up at the afternoon sun above them.

Geralt stopped and looked at him, confused by the odd observation. “So?”

“Why hasn’t he done his chores yet?”

In answer, the Witcher jogged up to the porch and pushed through the door without more than a more than a courtesy knock, Jaskier hard on his heels. The room beyond was utterly silent aside from the buzzing of flies and a terrible sense of foreboding. Geralt threw out his arm in an attempt to keep Jaskier from seeing what was inside, but it was already too late.

His mind couldn’t seem to piece together the bloodied chunks and viscera sprayed throughout the room. It was as if he was looking at an abstract art piece, not the remains of a man he’d met only a few days before. Jaskier swallowed hard against the gorge rising in his throat and tried to force himself to focus.

The alderman was stretched out across the floor with his arms and legs tied tightly to four nails hammered into the wooden floor. A fifth ensured his head and neck were pulled painfully tight, probably at the edge of asphyxiation even before they started cutting into him. Deep lines had been carved into his skin, pulling away the flesh in a few places--though it was hard to notice when the man’s intestines were exposed to the muted daylight.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered.

Geralt scanned the space, looking for the clues only he’d been trained to find. “There’s more than one of them. That’s the only way they could keep him down while they set up the restraints.”

“Vampires?”

“No vampire would waste this much blood.”

“What then?”

The Witcher swallowed and walked out of the cottage. “I don’t know.”

* * *

As soon as they stepped past the first building in town, a girl rushed forward to meet them.

“Have you seen the alderman?” she asked, frantic.

Geralt glanced at Jaskier before he shook his head. “He’s dead.”

The teenager went pale. “He…?” she swallowed hard, “There’s another body. Down by the east bend of the river.”

Immediately, the Witcher focused on the new information. “One of the missing girls?”

She shook her head, looking terribly young. Jaskier reached out to pat her on the arm. “Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll get it sorted.”

Geralt didn’t look convinced, just watched her dart away towards the houses at the edge of town. His brow remained furrowed in thought, even as Jaskier stepped closer in silent support.

“There’s something we’re missing. None of this makes sense.”

Jaskier hummed, eyes pensieve. “You’ll figure it out. You’ll save them.”

“It’s killing more now,” Geralt said. “It’s getting more aggressive.”

“Maybe it knows you’re hunting it now.”

“Maybe.” 

The bard slapped him on the back, forcing a note of cheer into his voice. “I’m sure it’s just scared shitless at the prospect of facing the famous White Wolf and his bard.”

“Stay here, Jask.” There was an unmistakable hitch in his voice as he looked at the other man with uncharacteristic worry in his golden eyes. “Please.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment before nodding. “I will,” he lied.

* * *

Following Geralt was hardly a new past time for the bard, nor one that had come without its own consequences. He’d suffered through rope burns and the indignity of a punch to the gut with Geralt’s disdain ringing in his ears in their first day together. Since then he’d been chased through woods, fields, and cities with nothing but the burn of his lungs and the roar of his blood in his veins reminding him that he was still alive. He’d felt the splinters of his broken heart on a mountainside and the familiar dull throb of seeing a familiar face waiting for him in the crowd a year later.

The only thing left for him to fear was facing the future without Geralt by his side.

For all his gruff exterior, Jaskier knew that the Witcher was painfully vulnerable to the bitter hearts and words of the humans he was outnumbered by. If it was a human villain waiting for Geralt in the woods, the bard wasn’t willing to leave him to face them alone. Especially if they were joined by the kinds of bigoted crowds that seemed to appear at the sight of hulking builds and shadowed eyes. Or the kind of creature capable of killing a dozen people without leaving even the hint of a struggle.

  
  
  


Naturally, despite his best intentions, Jaskier came to a stop an hour later knowing he was helplessly lost.

He spun around slowly, looking for a landmark of some kind that would help him backtrack to the road or at least return to the inn. Darkness continued the creep in, reminding him that every moment he spent out here increased his odds of dying at the hand of any number of beasts. Chill crept through the air with the falling night and he spared a moment to wish silk was as warm as it was pretty.

Something flickered at the edge of his vision and he turned in time to see a fire in the distance. Jaskier moved towards it eagerly, grateful for some sign of life here.

Humanoid shadows moved in front of the light, coalescing into feminine shapes as he got closer. He could hear the sound of laughter and a pounding drum that set the rhythm for their dancing. At the edge of the trees, he frowned at the sight of them and looked for some explanation for the collection of women out in the middle of nowhere.

_ No, not nowhere, _ he corrected himself. There was the rundown shed where the miller’s horses had rested and he recognized the shadowed outline of the mill itself. Beneath the roar of the bonfire, the river quietly continued its path to the sea.

“Girls,” a warm voice called out pleasantly, “we have company.”

_ Run _ , a voice in his mind whispered.  _ Get away from here. _

The silence that fell over the clearing was almost painful. He could feel the weight of their focus on him like a brand. It was as though he were a hare staring out at a wolf while caught in a trap. They swayed slightly as they watched him, eager as hounds at a scent.

They were all dressed in gowns that were stained and ripped in places like they’re been in some kind of fight. In contrast, each wore a crown woven from flowers and placed over the loose waves of their hair. It reminded him of the fertility festivals near Autumn--though they rarely maintained this level of menace. They circled him, forcing him closer to the fire and the woman who remained posed in front of it. 

“Einri,” A husky voice called, pleasant as a woman inviting another to tea, “why don’t you relieve our guest of his pack? I’m sure he’s tired after walking so far.”

_ Einri. Why was that name so familiar? _

Jaskier tensed, not wanting to be forced to give away his only weapon. “That’s alright, I prefer not to let anyone touch my lute.” He tried to channel as much charm as he could. “It is my livelihood, after all.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

His belongings were pulled away from him roughly and he gritted his teeth against another protest. The girls didn’t seem to be bothered by the prospects of the violence that was rising with each heartbeat. In fact, they seemed eager.

“You weren’t who I was expecting this evening,” the woman said as she strolled closer. The light seemed to catch her eyes oddly, refracting in a way that was subtly unsettling. “Aisling assured me that it would be the Witcher who visited us this evening.”

Like the first pebbles that triggered a rockslide, her words seemed to be the trigger for the pieces falling into place. 

_ The missing women.  _ Einri, Rose, and Nesta--Aisling’s friends, she’d claimed. He counted the girls around him and wanted to curse at his own stupidity. There were seven women circling him now and he was willing to bet that he was looking at the missing girls that had seemingly vanished over the last few weeks. 

He looked at the circle and saw the girl who’d sent Geralt off to find the body standing a few feet away. Part of him hoped that meant he was safe wherever he was now.

Then there was the leader. Now that he knew what to look for, he’d realized where he’d seen the flowered pattern on her dress. A matching shirt had still been hanging on the washing line when he and Geralt had investigated the mill. It seemed Mary hadn’t been murdered after all--even if the prickling sensation of unease only grew as she moved closer.

It still didn’t tell him why or how the murders/abductions had been taking place, however. The girls around him didn’t give off that faint prickle of power that Yennefer had so he was almost certain they weren’t mages. The group looked to Mary like she made the decision for them and Mary didn’t seem to notice them any more than she did the moths circling the flames. He couldn’t seem to shake the idea that the thing standing in front of him was nothing like the woman sewing flowers with careful precision.

Unless, it wasn’t Mary at all.

“You’re not human, are you?”

The creature masquerading as the missing miller’s wife threw their head back and laughed. The sound echoed oddly through the air like an aural assault. “Aisling didn’t tell me you were clever.”

“Aisling seems to enjoy keeping secrets.” He didn’t quite manage to keep the bitterness out of his voice at the reminder of how much the barmaid had played him. “What are you?”

“I have many names,” it said, something terrible rippling beneath the skin in a way that made Jaskier want to gag. “You may call me Korzen--or goddess if you prefer.”

He supposed that explained the glazed look of adoration in the women’s eyes.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but we both know I’d be lying.”

“Now you’re just being petty.” 

Korzen stepped closer, prowling in a way that made it appear like it possessed more joints than a human should. In contrast with its terrifying movements, the creature wore a long white dress with a hem stained with dark marks that he hoped desperately was dirt. Its feet were bare and didn’t seem affected by the cold ground or rocks as it walked closer. 

He took a step back, wishing desperately that he didn’t manage to attract trouble so easily. “Why are you working with something like this?” he asked the silent women. “It’s  _ murdering _ people. How long before it gets tired of you too?”

“Silly little bardling,” Korzen purred, “Do you think I’d let you speak to them if I didn’t know they were loyal above all else?”

“You’ve tricked them into listening to you.”

“Not at all. Lying is so--” The demon shrugged. “--pedestrian. All I did was offer them the power to get what they truly wanted.”

“Nice story. Still murder.”

“I gave them  _ justice _ .” Korzen stretched out its arms in a sweeping gesture. Like zealots at the feet of their god, the women reached out to touch it with rapturous expressions. “I gave them the power they needed to get rid of men like the alderman’s son without fear.”

“How is that justice?”

“What of the justice for poor Rose when that boy ignored her attempts to tell him no? Or the alderman who covered up the crime?” One of the girls, Rose, made a rough sound of agreement. “And yet you seek to stop us.”

“What about the miller and her husband? I doubt they agreed to let you use their home and body for your plotting.”

It shrugged delicately. “Sacrifices must be made.”

If Jaskier had been a Witcher, he would have noticed the woman walking closer to where he stood with a cudgel raised high.

But he wasn’t a Witcher, he was just a bard.

He managed to make a single cry of painful surprise before the ground rushed up to meet him.

  
  
  


The sensation of ropes tugging his arms into place slowly dragged Jaskier up out of the darkness. He groaned, throbbing head making his vision spot black and fuzzy. Above him, a simple white washed ceiling indicated that he’d been moved indoors after they’d knocked him out. Jaskier tilted his head slightly, confirming that he recognized the simple wooden furnishings and the smell of fresh grain.

The mill.

“Oh good, you’re waking up,” Mary’s voice crooned, sounding pleased. “It’s always so difficult to keep humans alive--you’re such fragile creatures.”

“Fuck you,” he rasped.

“No, I’ve never enjoyed that element of humanity.”

“Geralt will find you,” Jaskier swore as he blinked away the last of the dizziness. Head injuries were always the worst way to go unconscious. For now, he needed to keep Mary talking and give the Witcher the time he needed to figure out where Jaskier was. “He’ll end you. He’s not like those villagers you tricked.”

The creature tilted her head in a reptilian movement. Then she smiled. “Men are simple creatures, I’ve found. They’ll follow a pretty girl nearly anywhere. All I had to do was call out like I was hurt and poor Bron came running.”

He sneered at her. “He won’t fall for your tricks--he’ll know Aisling is lying.”

“Guess I’ll just have to use better bait.”

Abruptly, the fact that he was still breathing took on a sinister cast. He pulled against the ropes keeping his arms and legs pinned to the ground, horrified to realize he was in the same position as the alderman. “I’m going to enjoy watching him kill you,” he grunted.

“Not as much as I’ll enjoy this.”

The first blow caught him by surprise and came courtesy of the dimpled brunette to the left of him. It knocked the air out of his lungs and sent him wheezing, gasping like a dying fish. With the ropes keeping him in place, he was helpless to the kicks and punches that were meted out by each of the laughing women.

Time went fuzzy and distant enough that he was almost grateful.

A bone snapped in his side thanks to a booted foot coming down hard against his chest. It made the air feel like broken glass in his lungs and iron coat his tongue. He gagged hard on a wave of bile and spent several miserable minutes coughing before he realized the assault had stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Something crackled nearby and he managed to crack open one rapidly swollen eye to watch one of the youngest women step through the doorway with a lit torch in her hand. Jaskier twitched, feeling terribly exposed and all too aware of what each of them were capable of. The creature smiled like a proud mother at the girl, taking the burning piece of wood from her.

“Well done, Nesta. It won’t be long until all of this is behind us.” 

Jaskier spat out a mouthful of blood and bared pink-stained teeth. “Go to hell,” he rasped.

The girls around him laughed as though he’d told a joke, jostling amongst each other eagerly with firelight reflecting in their eyes. Mary gave him a benevolent smile and tossed the torch onto the empty bed in the corner. Within seconds, he smelled the bitter scent of burning wool as the fire caught and began to spread.

“And leave you here all alone?” The creature in the woman’s body asked, all mocking sympathy and terrible anticipation. “I wouldn’t dream of it--we’re having so much fun after all.”

Jaskier twitched helplessly as the women filed out of the mill and left him where he was bound on the floor. He arched his back slightly, trying to see to where the fire was slowly creeping from the bed to drip onto the floor. It hit the edge of the floor and he closed his eyes, going limp with exhausted pain.

His body ached as he lay on the ground, bleeding. The floor was cold at his back and noise came through staticky and broken like a voice through a waterfall. He could just vaguely hear footsteps thudding toward him accompanied by shouting. Still, his vision refused to focus, and the only thing he could identify around him was the flickering red of the flames reflected in the cloud heavy with rain that would never be enough to stop the fire spreading through the mill.

All he could hope was that the smoke killed him before he began to burn.

* * *

Geralt walked through the door to the bar with exhaustion and frustration competing for control over the thoughts swirling around his head. He just couldn’t figure out what could possibly be responsible for both the murdered victims and the missing girls. It just didn’t make sense.

Whatever was killing these men and taking the women wasn’t behaving like any creature in Vesemir’s library or even whispered among gossiping Witchers. If it was about killing its victims, the beast would already have racked up a much higher list of dead bodies. Plus, there was no evidence of a struggle in any of the areas where people had been taken except where the alderman and his son’s bodies were found. Those scenes had been more about pain than a need for control via the ropes still attached to the corpses.

On the other hand, humans wouldn’t be able to hunt each other without the help of a group and a group of murderers and kidnappers would have attracted the attention of the locals by now. It would have also made them more likely to point fingers at the Witcher in their midst or think twice about talking to his bard. A human villain would know that.

Inside the tavern was as quiet as it had been the first night there with only the barmaid at the counter acting as a sign of life. He looked around for the dark head of curls like he was a boat for an anchor. When he didn't, Geralt headed toward the bar and tried to ignore the familiar sensation of knowing something was wrong.

_ Jaskier, where the fuck are you? _

The young barmaid he’d spotted chatting with the bard the night before looked up with wide, nervous eyes when he approached. “W-Witcher. How can I help you?”

“Have you seen Jaskier? The bard?” he asked, trying to be direct enough that her fear didn’t lead to a lack of assistance. He remained standing with one hip leaned against the end of the bar, eager for the excuse to keep this conversation short. “He was supposed to wait for me here.”

“I haven’t seen him. I thought he was with you?”

The sound of empty glass bottles hitting one another by her feet made him look down in time to see her push a brown case under the bar. The well-love leather had several scratches along the sides with three long grooves through the middle--exactly where a wyvern had nearly carried Jaskier off last year.

The barmaid yelped in surprise when Geralt pinned her to the bar, eyes blazing.  _ “Where is he?” _

“I--I don’t kn--”

“ _ Don’t. Lie, _ ” he roared, loud enough that the glass rattled on the shelf behind her. The scent of her fear and sweat mixed with the beer dripping over the counter. “You have his lute. He’d never leave it behind.”

“I--” Something complicated passed over her face before she slumped slightly in his hold. “They wanted you to go to the mill to, to get him.”

“Who?”

“Mary and the others.”

He frowned, a sick sort of understanding coming over him. “Mary the miller’s wife? The one who’s missing?”

The barmaid’s jaw clenched and she nodded, eyes darting away. He was willing to bet that there was more that he was missing, but he didn’t have the time to spare. Not if it meant leaving Jaskier unprotected a moment longer. With a growl, he shoved her back and leaned down to grab the lute and pack.

He had a bard to save.

  
  
  


Geralt gave up all manner of pretense when the scent of smoke was carried on the wind toward him, sprinting towards the mill with all the speed he could manage. His eyes picked out the faraway light of the fire that was slowly creeping up the side of the building and reflecting through the windows. It matched the bonfire that had been lit in the front yard of the building.

It was there that he found the missing women and a dead widow.

He pulled his sword out as he slowed to a walk, scanning the group for any sign of Jaskier. “Where is he?”

“The Witcher joins us at last,” the oldest woman called, backed by the low thrum of the medallion at his throat. “I was beginning to think you’d be too late.”

Geralt considered the creature standing backlit by the flames with an eerie light reflecting in her eyes and the faintest scent of sulfur and ozone in the air. He didn’t need to guess who was responsible for the dead men.

“What’s a child of Abbadon doing above ground?”

“Such clever boys,” the demon smirked. “It’s a shame you’re here to stop me.”

“You’ve murdered at least three men in the last few weeks and have kept these women in thrall to do it. You can’t imagine you’d get away with that.”

It gave a cruel laugh. “How do you know they didn’t choose to follow me?”

He barely glanced at the circle of teenagers that swayed like they could hear some inaudible tune. A faint thrum of power shimmered in the air around them, promising that the demon had instructed in enough magic to make them a threat. Their eyes were blank with anything but the same malice that marred the demon’s expression. “What did you promise them?” he asked, “Riches? Power? Love? All at the price of their souls?”

“I gave them something far sweeter--revenge.”

He thought of the expression on the alderman’s face when he’d sent them after the missing girls. The man hadn’t wanted them  _ found _ \--he’d wanted them  _ stopped _ .

“That’s why you killed the alderman? Revenge?”

The demon smiled, benevolent. “I just gave them what they needed to keep him pinned. They did the rest.”

“And fed off his agony,” Geralt finished, knowing what most of its kind really wanted.

“It’d be a shame to waste it.” A shrug. “Don’t act like you’re so superior--you’d kill me right now if you could.”

“I told you, I’m just here for my bard.”

The creature laughed, drunk on the power building around her. “We both know it’s too late for that. I’ll stay fed on his pain for  _ years _ .”

“Give him back to me,” he growled, the timbre of his voice edging toward inhuman. “ _ Now _ .”

“If you had any intelligence, you would turn around and leave while you still can, Witcher.” The demon’s smile was as cruel as the final words of a jilted lover. “You’re too late for poor little Jaskier--but it’s hardly the first time you’ve left him to suffer, is it?”

Geralt threw himself forward with a roar of fury. He felt her first spell leave a blistering trail of agony along one cheek, but ignored it in favor of hurling himself forward across the distance separating them. A quick Quen deflected another fireball from one of the initiates at the edge of the circle and he heard a sharp cry of pain when it slammed into one of the other girls.

The demon met him with teeth bared, shedding the harmless veneer of the miller’s wife. Dark talons ripped free from its fingertips and its teeth seemed to sharpen in a vicious snarl. They slammed into one another with a dull thud, ripping into one another like wild beasts. It made the flames growing around them a fitting backdrop.

His sword was too large to maneuver in close combat so he tossed it aside in favor of the smaller silver knife in his boot. He hadn’t been expecting to fight anything supernatural which meant he only had the bare minimum on him. The only blessing was that with the demon’s focus channeled into their fight, its hold on the girls seemed to fade.

He heard them crying out in fear and confusion before they ran back through the trees towards town. Geralt managed to shove the demon away to grin ferally at it. “Looks like your followers aren’t as loyal as you’d hoped.”

“Loyalty is only rewarded in death,” it said with a sly smile, “something your bard knows better than most.”

“He isn’t a part of this. This is between you and me.”

It laughed, cruel and grating. “He’s always been a part of this--ever since he was stupid enough to fall in love with a Witcher.”

Geralt went still, breathless with fear and...something else. “What?”

“He didn’t tell you?” It snickered, shaking its head. “Poor, stupid Witcher. Too bad you aren’t as emotionless as you claim.”

He took an aggressive step forward and pressed the blade of his knife against its throat. “He isn’t a part of this. Your fight is with me.”

“You’re going to have to choose,” it spat, blood black against white teeth. “You can’t kill me in time to save him. How much do you actually care about your bard?”

As if its words triggered it, the side of the mill collapsed in a sea of sparks that illuminated the entire clearing in a flash of light. Beneath the roar of the flames, he heard a muffled cry of pain and terror. He looked toward it, fear crawling up his throat to suffocate him.

_ Jaskier _ .

“Not long now,” it singsonged.

Another snap of burning timber had him looking back toward the mill with growing panic. The demon was right. There was no way he’d be able to kill the demon before the rest of the roof collapsed on Jaskier. He stared back at the creature beneath him and made his decision.

Slipping his knife back into his boot, he dropped the rest of his gear and sprinted towards the building. Geralt wrapped the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth, hoping it would help filter the worst of the smoke until he found Jaskier. Inside was a roar of noise and burning heat, drowning out any advantage his heightened senses could offer.

“Jaskier!” he shouted, desperate.

Only the fire answered him.

His slow beating heart lurched in his chest. 

_ No _ .

He couldn’t already be too late. 

“JASKIER!”

His lungs filled with smoke, making him cough even with the makeshift filter. The room around him was thick with smoke and he felt his chest ache with the effort to keep breathing. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Jaskier trapped inside for so long.

“...ralt…?”

“ _ Jaskier _ .” 

Relief warred with worry as he zeroed in on the weak voice. He moved towards the last section of the house untouched by the fire, but hazy with smoke. 

His foot hit something soft and he looked down to find Jaskier stretched out over the ground in the same pose as the other victims. The man was bloody and bruised as though he’d been beaten before they left him here, but Geralt hoped that being low to the ground might have saved him from the worst of the smoke. With shaking hands, Geralt dared to reach for the pulse pounding faintly beneath his skin before beginning to pull at the ropes pinning him to the ground.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, drifting aimlessly before settling on the Witcher’s face. He frowned, blinking with surprise. “You have to go.”

Geralt ignored the feeble protest and the weakening roof above them in favor of using his knife to slice through a rope.

“Leave me. You have to get out--.” The bard’s words were cut off with a round of awful coughing.

“No.” He cut another rope before having to pause to cough. “Not without you.”

“Geralt--”

A thundering groan shook the air around them, drowning out the sound of the fire creeping closer. Geralt curled his body above Jaskier like a living shield as debris rained down on them. They were running out of time.

By the time the last of Jaskier’s limbs were freed, Geralt’s vision was beginning to spot due to lack of oxygen. The bard had given up his feeble protests in favor of gasping for what little air was left for them. His blue eyes remained fixed on the Witcher like he was trying to remember this moment.

Geralt picked him up as more falling timber and fire rained down on them from above. He barely avoided getting struck by one of the roofbeams as it finally collapsed and forced himself to ignore the protests of his overtired muscles. Jaskier was limp in his arms and counting on him.

They burst through the door leading outside with only moments to spare before the mill finally gave in to the destructive force of the flames. The Witcher managed to walk a few more feet before collapsing with it, careful not to land on top of Jaskier. 

For a long time, all they did was gasp for air and blink the smoke from their eyes.

As soon as he was able, Geralt forced himself to sit back up and take stock. The demon was likely long gone, but he knew enough now to ensure he’d be able to track it. He leaned over, eager to confirm for himself that his bard was okay. Gently, he helped Jaskier sit up and ease some of the pressure on his bruised ribs.

“You, you let her go?” Jaskier asked slowly with a voice ruined by smoke. “You saved me. Why?”

Geralt’s hands shook as he framed Jaskier’s soot-stained face and tilted it up so he could look for any sign of injury. The bard’s eyes were wide and shocky, but he met the Witcher’s steadily. He watched his tongue dart out to swipe across blood smeared lips and was helpless to ignore the temptation.

The Witcher closed the distance between them with all of the gentleness he possessed, brushing his lips across his forehead, eyes, nose, before finally hesitating a breath away from the bard’s lips. Waiting.

“Geralt…” A plea.

It was all it took to break the fragile hold over his control. He pressed himself forward, tracing the stubborn chin and strong jaw that had been a distraction for years. He let himself breathe in the soft sounds of pleasure with greed, teasing out more until they were both panting and Jaskier’s eyes were wide with something far better than the pain of before.

“It’s you,” Geralt said with his fingers still buried in Jaskier’s hair and the scent of ash in his nose. “I will  _ always _ choose you.”

  
  



End file.
